


crashed into me

by angrylizardjacket (ephemeralstar)



Series: Romance Is Boring 'verse [7]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Rocketman (2019)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gratuitous Art Love, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:39:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstar/pseuds/angrylizardjacket
Summary: Ash, having split from Roger, is called in to work with Elton John, where she meets Bernie Taupin, who feels like a breath of fresh air, even if he’s not so different from Roger, he’s different enough. It feel different. It feels good.





	crashed into me

**Author's Note:**

> atrociously long but I don’t know the word count. I’m so so so sorry to mobile users who Read More doesn’t work for. And for everyone else for the next 3 days until I can get to a laptop and add a read more. SO this is a thing. I’m actually a little proud of it. It’ll get like 12 notes because it’s obscure as hell but I’m enjoying myself and that’s what matters. I hope that if you read it, you enjoy it too!!

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”   


When John Reid, Queen’s manager, calls Ash  _specifically_ , she can’t even begin to fathom what he wants. This is  _John Reid,_  who manages Elton John, who she’s met  _maybe_ twice in total, wanting her to meet  _someone_ \- not Queen,  _just_ Ash. He calls and he asks her to meet him at his office, to bring her portfolio; he tells her that he’s got a client who is interested in working with her, and Ash feels like she’s going to throw up. 

When John Reid, Elton John’s manager, calls Ash,  _Queen’s designer,_ specifically, he knows without even really needing a meeting that she’d be perfect to work with Elton. The moment he’d met her, watched her negotiate for a place on EMI’s payroll with Foster, he knew she wasn’t one to be chewed up and spat out the industry like so many before her had been, and will be. She’s weathered rockstars, weathered  _Freddie Mercury_ for years by now, and she’s got the drive, the talent, and the vision to bring Elton’s extravagance to life. 

And more importantly, he knows what’s gone down between her and Roger, and since they’ve split, he doesn’t want either of their talent wasted on awkward encounters and unresolved tension; he wants to give her a project with another artist as much as he wants to give her an opportunity.

The meeting is more of a formality.

“Rocket, dear, lovely to see you, please take a seat,” Reid smiles warmly at her when she knocks on his door, wearing a bright red jumpsuit, the top of which is tied off around her waist, and a yellow, bejeweled, bell sleeved crop top. Her hair is out, looking somehow both styled, and an absolute, untameable mess, and she’s already reaching for her folio in the leather bag she’s got slung over one shoulder.

“Rocket? Who’s Rocket?” There’s someone on the sofa that Ash hadn’t been able to see for the door, and when she steps into the room, she can feel her heart in her throat.  _Elton. Fucking. John._

“Rocket here is a designer, she’s Queen’s designer actually, though she’s essentially on retainer for EMI; I think she could really bring your ideas to life, Elton.” Reid’s so clear and concise, and Ash has to remember to close her mouth, a little overwhelmed now that she knows exactly why she’s here. “Rocket, please, take a seat.” 

Ash steps quickly up to the desk, looking to Reid to avoid staring at Elton and the man she hadn’t noticed beside him, instead pulling out her portfolio and laying flat on the desk. The switch is instant, from nervous to all business, seizing the opportunity presented.

“You should have given me a heads up, I could have brought some of the actual pieces I was working on for Freddie, they’re far more impressive.” Ash tells him, voice a little tense. She avoids looking directly at Reid, opening up to the front page which was already a rather impressive photo of Freddie in a sequinned, striped jumpsuit, laid out over a sketch of the design with notes, and fabric samples. When she finally looks up at Reid, he’s giving her a faintly amused smile, before his gaze flicks to the sofa and it’s occupants.

“I’m sorry,” he’s not really, they both know, but Ash just gives a tight smile in response before he’s calling over the other two, “Elton, Bernie, would you like to come over and introduce yourselves and take a look at her portfolio, maybe get some ideas?”

There’s movement once he stops speaking; Elton, and the one who has to be Bernie, make their way over, both looking between Ash and Reid, a little confused, but mostly intrigued. Ash stands and moves to the side to let the other two get a good look at her work.

“Ash Clarke,” she offers her hand, smiling brightly trying to hide her nerves, “but most people around here call me Rocket; it’s a nickname turned professional name, you know how it goes,” she explains without being prompted, as if reading off a script. Elton grins at her.

“Elton John, lovely to meet you, Miss Rocket, I have to say it’s good to put a name to the brains behind some of Freddie’s pieces I’ve come to really envy,” he tells her, and Ash can feel herself turning bright red at the compliment.

“Thank you,” she tells him, her smile growing more bashful, still a little starstruck, “it’s lovely to meet you too.”

“You- you made all of these?” The other man asks, eyes bright as he looks up from where he’s been flicking through her portfolio. Ash drops Elton’s hand, and the singer turns to join his friend in looking through the book.

“Every design in there had to be made from scratch; it’s not as if you’re going to get Freddie Mercury’s look in Biba,” she laughs a little, gaze drifting as she scratches at the back of her neck, considering “I’m not exactly worried about time or effort in terms of construction; hand sewing a sequinned jumpsuit was pretty much my Everest.”

“We’ll see about that,” Elton says, and there’s an excited look in his eyes, and Ash pauses for a moment, before letting her grin turn a little sharp as she looks back at him.

“If anyone could give me a challenge, it’d probably be you.” 

And the moment her work becomes her focus, any indication of her earlier nervousness evaporates. When she greets Bernie, there’s a confidence in the way she holds herself, the firmness of her handshake, something in her smile he can’t quite identify.

Once they’re all introduced, Ash stands between the pair looking over her folio, walking them through designs, the intricacies of each piece’s construction; her voice is strong and her explanations are concise, though she’ll add amusing asides here and there. Before the half an hour meeting is up, Elton’s already agreed to take her on as his designer, and head dresser for the tour.

“I prefer to travel with my more intricate work,” Ash admits, a little awkwardly, but Elton’s already all but agreed. 

After everyone’s in agreement, a consultation has been arranged for Ash and Elton to go through some initial ideas, and Ash has signed onto the tour, she’s packed up all her things and is ready to head out. Reid’s office is in a very large, very fancy EMI building, and while Elton stays to talk with his manager, Bernie offers to walk her out, lest she get lost.

“How’d you come to work with Queen?” He asks, smiling goodnaturedly. The softness about his eyes reminds her a little of John. 

“I met Fred in uni, he’s like a brother to me,” Ash admits, though it’s a little hesitant, there’s a tightness in her own smile, and she avoids his gaze, “I’ve been working with them for about three-to-four years,” she paused, “dunno, just sort of fell into it, I guess.” She paused for a very,  _very_ long moment, before finally turning, slowing down to an actual stop. “You’re the songwriter, aren’t you?” After a beat, she frowned, amending, “like, I know you both write songs, but you’re- that’s what you do for the mostpart.”

Bernie blinked a few times, taking a moment to process all of what she’d said, amid the flurry of her accent, and found himself smiling, nodding as he actually took a moment to consider the woman before him.

“Yes, I write the words, Elton writes the music,” after a beat, his smile grew wider, “that’s generally how it’s worked out.”

“Well judging by the end product, it’s worked out quite well.” Ash’s voice was surprisingly fond, and Bernie agrees, laughing, and then they’re heading off again, and he’s asking her if she had a favourite song. 

“I mean, I do, I have a few, but they’re…” she hesitated, bouncing down the stairs to the ground floor, “most of them, well, they’re a bit tragic now, old memories and such; I don’t listen to them a lot anymore,” she found herself admitting.

“Can I ask what they were anyways?” And Bernie sounds genuinely curious. Ash makes a noise that sounds caught between a hum and a laugh, but Bernie holds up a hand, amusement shining in his eyes when she looks over his eyes, “can I take a guess and say one of them was  _Tiny Dancer_?”

Ash laughs, nodding, though she’s also turning pink.

“The kicker is that I can’t dance to save my life, haven’t got a musical bone in my body,” they’re passing reception, and Ash waves to the woman behind the counter who smiles and waves at her in return, “but Rog was always adamant that the rest of the song was close enough that it didn’t matter.” Her words are fond but then her expression is twisting, falling once they step outside and her mind has caught on a memory; the reason she doesn’t listen to the song anymore, Bernie thinks. He goes to apologise, but then she’s smiling brightly at him, waiving it off and hopping down the front steps of the building.

She tells him it was lovely to meet him, so honest and bright, and he wonders if it was a trick of the light, her momentary scowl. He returns the sentiment in kind and tells her he looks forward to their next meeting. Ash’s smile grows wider, and then she’s off, easy for his eye to follow, all red and gold and ginger, like a flame through the sea of beige pants and slate grey sidewalks. Certainly she’s interesting, but he’s not quite sure what to think.

By the time he’s back in the office, though he’s sure to knock first, knowing Elton and Reid’s situation, he asks about her. Elton, ever the gossip, has already extracted from Reid everything he knows about the girl, within reason. 

The most scandalous gossip is always what Elton starts with, and it only takes a single sentence for the earlier interaction to start making more sense to Bernie.

“Well I  _knew_ I knew her from somewhere; she’s been in and around the tabloids in the past few years, dating Roger Taylor and all,” Elton leans back, smiling to himself; the gossip’s not malicious, it’s more like he’s proud of himself for solving some sort of riddle. It’s obvious he likes her well enough, is excited to work with her, is excited to work with someone who has the talent to match his ideas. 

They meet with her weekly; Elton because he’s the one she’s designing for, Reid because he’s Elton’s manager the same way Paul is Queen’s; in charge of the day-to-day, and Bernie because, well, because he can be, because he wants to be. Ash doesn’t complain, he’s good company.

They go over concepts at a coffee shop, and she’s dressed down from the last time they saw her. Her hair’s tied back, late and a little frantic, sketchbook in hand when she bursts in. There’s paint on her clothes and graphite on her fingertips, and loose pieces of thread littered all over her shirt if anyone looked hard enough.

She doesn’t give an excuse, just jumps straight into the ideas she had, opening her sketchbook to a page covered in designs and colours, telling them she’d have fabric samples after taking measurements.

She’s chaotic; a flurry of movement and colour, and a much thicker accent than Reid, exploding with ideas, and so enthusiastic about the ideas that Elton brings in turn. She’d rather write her address on a napkin than rip out a page of her notebook, and something about that is  _so_ endearing.

“Sorry, I know this isn’t usually how designers work,” she says, finally taking a moment to sip at the coffee she’d ordered on arrival, making a face at how lukewarm and unpleasant it was, “I’m just used to being far more hands on with my clients,” after a beat, she considered her words, before her expression wrinkles and she turns an entertaining shade of pink. “Professionally,” she picked her words carefully, “I like to establish a close and  _respectful_ relationship with my clients; I consider the people I work with to be friends.” She explains, and is thankful when no-one questions her on that.

Bernie’s the first to show up, a week later at the address she’d given them all, and it comes as a slight surprise to find that it’s not a studio, that it’s just her flat. She answers the door in practically the same clothes as she’d been wearing the last time she saw him, but with a grin adorning her face, looking far less hurried.

While she sets about making tea, he takes the moment to look around her apartment, picking his way past the reams of fabric leaning against every piece of furniture it seemed. There’s a selection of photos on her mantle, most notably, a slightly faded photograph of a younger-looking Ash, and Freddie Mercury, in front of the ocean. Most of her photos are of Queen members, though there’s a few of what he thinks is a band, though he doesn’t recognise them, the woman Ash is standing beside is stark naked, grinning and covered in body paint. There’s one, face down, and when he picks it up, he sees Ash asleep on Queen’s Roger Taylor, the two of them crammed into what Bernie recognises as a tour bus sofa; it’s labelled  _Osaka ‘72._ It’s surprisingly intimate. He feels like he’s intruding. Something tightens in Bernie’s chest at the sight of it, and he puts it back down, wants to pretend like he never saw it, but turning back, he sees Ash watching him, quiet, leaning against her kitchen counter with two mugs in front of her.

“Sorry, I should have cleaned up.” Her voice is soft as she picks up the mugs, bringing one over to him where he’s floundering, babbling out apologies for intruding, though she doesn’t seem to be listening. Instead, she stands beside him, shoulder brushing his, looking at the rest of the photos.

“That one’s from our first year-” she picks up the one of herself and Freddie, “felt like we were the only two not straight out of high school, us old dogs had to stick together.”

This takes Bernie by surprise, who hadn’t thought much about how old she was, though when he thinks about it, he’d assumed she was younger than him, but perhaps that was just her height. It turns out he’s younger than her by just under a year; she’d just turned twenty-six. 

Elton and Reid turn up not long after, and she sets about making them tea also, before she starts taking Elton’s measurements. While she’s writing and sketching, she hands him a thick box of fabrics, and tells him to go through it, pick out some textures and colours he likes and that he thinks would work.

What a strange juxtaposition she presents herself as; endlessly patient and understanding with everyone around her, but always hurrying herself, wanting to do more, trying to push herself,  _challenge_ herself. Bernie can’t deny that he’s coming to quite like her.

In the months leading up to the album release and tour, they’re at her flat almost once a week, once a fortnight if they’re busy, but it becomes a familiar location. Ash is casual about it, insisting that suits would be overdressed, and so, even for Reid, it becomes a small sanctuary from the hectic life they’ve all been leading. Despite this, she’s always been a bit wary of Reid, not enough to have it effect their business, but every time she sees him in a suit, it seems to set her on edge; the moment he starts showing up in jeans and t-shirts, she seems far more comfortable. Sometimes they bring takeout, and Ash yells when Elton eats in costume, but she always relents ‘ _just this once’,_ every time. 

They swap anecdotes, and the three men come to realise that Ash was a  _lot_ closer with Queen than anyone else seems to know, and she in turn learns of Elton and Reid’s relationship. There’s a moment of nervousness, of hesitation after the confession spills from Elton’s lips, even Bernie is tense. After a beat, Ash sits back from where she’d been bent over her sewing machine.

“It doesn’t bother me, I’m in a similar boat after all, in terms of,” she flushes a little, gesturing vaguely to herself, though she’s facing away from them, hair hiding most of her face. There’s a new tension in the room now, “but I don’t have much of a preference,” she admitted, before laughing a little, looking back at them where they’ve taken up her sofa and armchair, “but honestly after everything I went through with Rog, I admire that you’ve kept it so discrete.” After this, she actually seems less tense around Reid, even when he’s wearing a suit, though Bernie’s not sure the others have even noticed.

Bernie finds her  _fascinating_ , will show up early just to talk while she will be sewing, or pinning, or embroidering, always doing something, always keeping busy. In turn, he’d started bringing his notebook, working on lyrics. They’d fall into companionable silence, working away at their respective tasks before Reid and Elton would show up and the noise would pick up again.

“Dude, how in the hell did you manage to tear this?”

Bernie arrives in time to see Ash holding what looks like it could be a shirt, gazing despairingly at Brian May, who just shrugged at her question. After a beat, she shook her head.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she sighed, taking a seat at her sewing machine, and greeting Bernie with a weary smile, “when do you need this by?” She asks Brian, who’s frowning in confusion at Bernie. The confusion is mutual. “ _Brian_.”

“Saturday?”

“It’ll take me twenty minutes, can you make me a tea?” She sighs, and he’s happy to oblige. Once introduced, Bernie and Brian get on well, chatting idly about music and touring, and when Bernie mentions taking Ash on tour, Brian looks both surprised and amused, and before Ash can even open her mouth to protest, Brian’s already giving a wry yet vague warning about keeping an eye on her on tour. Before he can even finish she’s threatening to destroy his shirt, and that’s enough to shut him up.

Banter and teasing quips flow between them and it becomes obvious that they’re old friends through and through. Brian mentions that Freddie’s been whining without her around, and Ash gives a wry smile, calls Freddie a sook, and informs Brian that Freddie had been by the apartment only two days ago. She asks about how John Deacon was going with his girlfriend, and Brian’s smile turns fond as he catches her up. It doesn’t escape Bernie’s notice how they avoid talking about Roger.

Once the shirt’s fixed, Ash presents it with pride, and Brian takes her face in his hands, kissing her forehead and calling her a legend. Ash’s answering smile is toothy. Silence filled the little flat once Brian had left, as Ash leaned her head onto her desk with faint exasperation, her cheeks flushed.

“So, Miss Rocket,” Bernie leaned back in her armchair, mischief glinting in his eyes as he crosses his arms. He doesn’t call her that much anymore, but she’s not objecting to the nickname as much as she is this line of questioning he’s about to go down, “what exactly did you get up to on tour that it warrants a warning from Brian May?” There’s a teasing edge to his words and Ash actually gives pause, before looking up, cheeks still dusted with a faint blush.

“It’s not suitable for polite company,” her smile is sharp, amusement sparkling in her eyes, and Bernie laughs.

“Sweet of you to call me polite company-” but they’re cut short but Elton bursting in, asking if Brian May had just been here. 

Something about Ash’s relationship with Bernie had shifted that day, subtly, almost imperceptibly, but they both knew it had. Perhaps it was the solidarity of being close to someone in the spotlight, or the solidarity of everyone knowing your work but no-one knowing your name. Perhaps it was simpler than that.

Now, not that anyone noticed enough to make mention of it, when she wasn’t at her sewing machine or fitting Elton, more often than not she was by his side. Even at the photoshoot Reid had set up to get a look at the costumes under lights, Ash found herself coming to stand beside Bernie. Initially it had been to ask his opinion, but she’d then just stayed there, frowning at Elton with her tongue poking out just as little as she tried to think about what else the outfit might need.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” There’s pride in Bernie’s voice, and Ash hums distractedly, playing with the box of safety pins in her hand while Elton posed with a piano. His jacket was beautifully ostentatious, with big, furry shoulder pieces that somehow managed to distract from his tight, sequinned pants. It’s quite a look.

“Do you think it needs something?” She asks, tipping her head to the side. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Bernie says after a moment, before humming, “it’s quite fetching though, God knows only he could pull it off.” Ash laughs a little at that, but her frown deepens.

“Elton,” she calls out, and the singer’s attention immediately snaps to her, “you think it needs anything else?”

“A hat.” He answers, without missing a beat, and Ash’s face lights up like he’s given her the secrets to life, the universe, and everything.

“Of course!”

Once the photoshoot is over, Elton makes mention that they’re going out for drinks, makes a point to invite her, and Ash hesitates for a moment, but agrees, so long as she can stop by her flat to change. Halfway to her front door, arms laden down with garment bags, she turns back to the Rolls Royce the other three are crammed into, and asks where they’re getting drinks at a volume that’s probably louder than necessary. After a moment, the window is rolled down, and Elton’s smiling face is looking at her, telling her to wear whatever she’d wear out with Freddie, for context. Ash nods very seriously, tells him she won’t be long.

It only takes her five minutes before she’s crashing from her front door, a pair of enormous, black platformed go-go boots in hand, wearing a black, sequinned, sleeveless shirt, and brown, corduroy, high-waisted shorts. When she makes her way into the car, she’s too distracted trying to pull on her boots to notice where Elton was instructing the driver to go, or how Bernie was pointedly looking at anything  _but_ Ash.

Thankfully, Elton had taken the middle seat in the back, and was currently fawning over the sequinned shirt, and he and Ash got into a conversation that essentially amounted  to complaining about the texture of wearing sequins, but loving how they felt from the outside. When Elton asks Bernie his thoughts, the man in question stumbled over his answer, gaze fixed out the window. 

“He hasn’t got the same eye for fashion,” Elton stage whispered to Ash, who couldn’t help but giggle.

“That’s not his fault, people like him can get away with owning one leather jacket because they always look good in it,” she says blithely; Elton’s eyebrows raise with amusement, and Bernie’s grinning, turning pink about the ears.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not,” Reid finally chimes in from the front seat, and Ash, who has no interest in being embarrassed or playing coy, smiles, and says without hesitation that it is.

With her boots on, she’s about the same height as Bernie, though both of them are still dwarfed by Elton in platforms of his own, and with Reid in tow, the four of them make their way into one of the hottest clubs London has to offer. 

Elton boos when she says she doesn’t like drinking, but cheers when she agrees to cocaine, and boos again once she’s snorted a few lines, and rubbed the remains on her gums, and adamantly refuses to dance.

“So no drinking but a strong yes to coke?” Bernie laughs, sitting beside her in the booth. They’re shoulder to shoulder despite the ample room surrounding them, and he’s got a beer in front of him; Elton and Reid have already disappeared. Ash is surprised Reid even agreed to come out.

“I don’t hate who I am on coke,” Ash says, far too honestly, but she’s still smiling as if she hadn’t been painfully personal, “and I don’t black out on it; I like remembering my nights.” She elbows him, a teasing edge to her words and her grin. He can’t help but laugh, tipping his head back against the wall.

“I thought you’d rather someone more… exciting. Adventurous. Someone to give you nights worth remembering,” he hears himself saying, “not to say that I’m not fun,” he amended quickly, “but I’m no Roger Taylor-”

“Thank fuck for that,” she chuckles humorlessly, “you know, I’m so fucking sick of people assuming what I want;  _who_ I deserve, who I’m perfect for, according to them,” her jaw tightens, looking out at the dance floor, and Bernie can’t help but frown, turning to look at her, “listen, if you want to keep things professional, just say the word. But for the record,” she turned to look at him, meeting his gaze, expression serious, “out of everyone I could possibly be with in this moment,  _I’d rather you_.”

Bernie doesn’t give himself time to hesitate, to deliberate, so he kisses her, his lips soft against hers, his hand coming to cup her jaw and pull her closer. She moves with him, pressing herself closer to his side, leaning in to his touch. When they break apart, he doesn’t drop his hold on her face, his thumb gently brushing against her cheek. She’s not smiling, though neither is he, both looking at the other as if waiting for the other’s reaction, both even a little bewildered. 

“You’re lovely,” Ash murmurs, eyes wide, “you’re so lovely and it makes me actually so nervous.” She admits, and Bernie can feel himself smiling.

“What?” He snorts, and Ash is turning pink. suddenly bashful, as if she’s regretting saying it.

“I can be  _such an asshole_ , I keep asking myself how I’ve tricked you into this,” she tells him, but she doesn’t look away, can’t bring herself to. His expression actually turns soft.

“You haven’t, and you aren’t,” he tells her fondly, and Ash finally ducks her head, moving out of his grip, her smile surprisingly vulnerable. “You’re very smooth, though; ’ _I’d rather you_ ’? How was I meant to resist that, not that I wanted to.”

“I get… sappy when,“ she hums thoughtfully, "intoxicated.” But her expression falls a little, “you don’t know me that well,” but she’s not moving away from him, though she’s sitting forward, looking out at the dancefloor.

“Well I think I’d like to.”

They don’t stay at the club long, it’s too hot, too crowded, too loud, and in different situations they’d both be enjoying it, but tonight doesn’t feel like that kind of night. They mill about the streets of London until they find a twenty-four hour cafe, and though it’s dingy, it feels  _perfect_. They drink terribly brewed tea and talk and laugh until Ash is coming down from her high, and she’s still nervous, but not hesitant. She hasn’t felt nervous like this for a long time, and it’s a welcome feeling, if she’s being honest. 

He walks her home, kisses her at the door to her flat building, and grins as he watches her head inside, a little giddy. 

The next morning, Ash lies in bed, staring at her ceiling, stomach ice cold and full of anxiety, wracked with worry that he didn’t mean it, that he thinks  _she_ didn’t mean it. But around midday, she gets a call.

“ _How are you holding up_?” On the other end of the line, Bernie’s voice is warm. 

“Pretty alright,” she’s smiling, shifting in her dressing gown and fluffy slippers, heart quickly warming as if exposed to sunlight, “how about you?” There’s a long pause, before Bernie’s quiet, hesitant laughter.

“ _I’m great. Do you want to grab dinner?_ ”

They’re not dating, not if anyone asks, and it’s easy to be discrete while in London. For the first time in a long time Ash realises she doesn’t have to worry about people gossiping and speculating; she’d be lying if she said she didn’t relish it.

At first the people around them seem none the wiser; Ash is always busy, always on the move, so it’s easy for people to see her with him and not think anything of it. Perhaps their respective, standoffish nature makes it easier to fool everyone around them; they haven’t known each other long enough to be comfortable with casual contact in front of other people, even things that could be construed as platonic.

But then he shows up early to the final fitting, something Ash had come to expect. For the first time since he’s known her, her flat is actually clean, relatively speaking; she’s got rows of clothes racks around the room, each bursting with sequins and feathers and more colours than you can shake a stick at, and headdresses line practically every flat surface in the living room, with a few even lined up in the corners, but there’s no giant reams of fabric leaning against the sofa or the wall, her sewing machine sits idle and clean on the desk in the back corner. It takes him a little while to realise, but he sort of misses the clutter.

Ash herself is wearing jeans and knitted sweater that’s too big for her, offering tea around a yawn she can’t quite bite back on this early Sunday morning. Something about it, perhaps the sleepy way she blinks after she finishes the question, has Bernie’s mind stalling for just a moment.

“Bern?” She asks gently, and his mind snaps out of it; she’s already holding two mugs in anticipation, slight frown creasing her forehead in confusion. Bernie smiles, can’t help himself, bright and fond.

“Tea would be lovely,” he agrees, and makes his way over to the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room. He turns, leaning against it to survey the now strangely unfamiliar living room. The kettle clicks on, and he can hear the busy London street outside, but it’s a haze, like sunlight filtering in through the curtains, not quite distinct, but surprisingly comforting.

"How long have you been here?” He asks idly, crossing his arms and Wat hing over his shoulder as she adds sugar and teabags to the mugs.

“A few years,” she muses, before leaving the cups be and waiting for the kettle to boil. Maneuvering around, she gently touches his arm as she passes, making a beeline for the sofa and flopping onto it, petting the seat beside her invitingly, “actually it was my first place after uni, if you don’t count friends’ couches,” she laughs, moving automatically to tuck herself up beside him. His leather jacket is sun-warmed from being outside, and Ash hums appreciatively. Resting her cheek on his shoulder, looking at the rows of feather and pomped headdresses on the coffee table before them.

“Seems rather small for a studio space and your home.”

“It gets the job done,” Ash turns, rests her chin on his shoulder, and when he turns back to her, faint fondness in his eyes, she realises how close they are, “I’m a creature of habit.” Her voice is so soft, but she’s smiling, leaning in, and Bernie’s got a hand on her cheek, kissing her softly as the kettle starts to whistle behind them.

There’s a beat, a moment, Ash sighs heavily at being interrupted and rests her forehead against his for a moment. Bernie chuckles, presses a kiss to her forehead.

“I’ve got it,” he assures, waiving off her protests, “no, I’ve been here enough times,” he assures, “I think I can handle two cups of tea.”

He moves like he knows the kitchen by the back of his hand, and Ash watches in fond awe as he finishes fixing them both tea. When it arrives, it even tastes almost perfect, and Ash, who’d curled up on the sofa, takes her drink with a murmured ’ _thanks_ ’ moving her legs over his as he rifled through the satchel by his side.

As Ash stretches, reaches down the other side of the sofa to grab one of the books stacked there, she feels herself slipping into a moment of sweet domesticity, something she hadn’t realised she would be able to enjoy so soon.

“You working on anything interesting?” Three minutes after trying to read, she feels her skin start to itch, and the closes her book definitively. The scratching of Bernie’s pen against his notebook is a painfully familiar sound for reasons that don’t involve the sweet lyricist before her, and she enjoys domesticity as much as the next person, but she’s got no project of her own; she doesn’t like being idle.

“I’m always working on something interesting, it’s just whether or not the label will see it that way,” he mused, frowning at his notebook. Something about his concentration was so endearing, but they’d been taking it slow, both because Ash was so used to her relationships starting physical with feelings coming into the mix later, but she didn’t want Bernie to think that all she wanted from him was sex. She just wanted to prove that she could take things slow, that she could care about the people she slept with before she slept with them.

But that jacket and his jeans and the way he’d been smiling at her had her feeling  _some_  type of way.

“You alright?” His voice brings her back to reality, and his hand where it’s resting on her knee is warm. Ash gives him a smile as sincere as she can manage, pushes all less than pure thoughts from her head; Elton and Reid would be arriving in less than an hour after all.

“What are you doing after this?”

“Not sure, didn’t really have any plans; why?” Bernie’s smiling slightly, and Ash tips her head to the side.

“I was thinking about visiting the Tate,” Ash sits up further, Bernie raises an eyebrow, intrigued. This thumb is brushing small circles against her knee.

“The art gallery?”

“No, the pizza place-  _yes_  the art gallery!” Ash laughs, leaning the side of her head against the back of the sofa, “they’ve-” she pauses for a moment, a little self conscious, like she’s sharing too much of herself to be saying this all out loud, “they’ve got a Pre-Raphaelite exhibition at the moment that I’ve been dying to see.” She admits. After a beat, her green-eyed gaze turns a little hopeful, “do you think you’d maybe like to come along?”

Bernie’s constantly surprised and delighted about the little things he keeps learning about her, and this is no different. He agrees easily.

The fitting goes well; it takes a while, obviously, with all the options she’s prepared, but Elton seems thrilled by the end of it, excited for the tour to start, and though Ash grumbles about getting all the outfits into garment bags and packing crates, she’s clearly very excited too. She and Elton bounce off of each other so well, her energy matching his the moment she’s focused on her work.

Bernie wonders if he has a type, regarding the people he cares about. He doesn’t think about it too hard.

She turns starry-eyed at the sight of Ophelia, and takes Bernie’s hand where they’re standing shoulder to shoulder in the gallery.

“She’s always here,” Ash clarifies quickly, coming back down to earth, “but she’s always so lovely.” She laughs and it’s a little awed. As the afternoon progresses, he comes to find that she’s a lot more invested in this than he’d realised. They float through the Pre-Raphaelite exhibition, with Ash making comment at every other work, and Bernie marvels at the art, at the gentleness of the figures, and their striking realism despite this.

“Spite is such a wonderful motivator,” Ash says with a knowing fondness, though her words startle a laugh from Bernie. Ash turns to look at him, eyebrows raised, “I mean it! The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, the group of artists who painted all of these, they formed in opposition of Raphael, and what was popular at the time artistically-”

“How do you know all this?” Bernie cuts her off, and Ash’s mouth snaps shut, frown adorning her brow for the barest moment.

“I studied it.”

“Double degree in fashion and art?” He nudges her shoulder but Ash’s mood seems to have already soured.

“No, the fashion one was my second go; I started with Art History.” She’s fidgeting now, playing with his and like she’s moments away from dropping it. But then he’s giving her hand a gentle squeeze, asking what happened; when she looks at him, she’s weary, looking, for a beat, half a second, far older than her age, “essentially,” she begins, though her voice is painfully flat, as flat as her gaze is shallow, “I was expelled.”

“Oh,” he frowns, just slightly, takes the moment to process this information, to file it alongside everything else about her, seeing how it all fit together. Obviously it wasn’t even close to being the whole story, but he didn’t like the way the topic seemed to upset Ash, so he changed it.

“Which is your favorite, then?” He asked, tugging her gently into the next room, his voice light. At Ash’s confusion, he smiled, “I’m sure you’ve seen enough art to pick a favorite piece.”

“ _The Lacemaker_ ;” Ash doesn’t even give time to pass and think, the answer tumbling from her lips. She turns pink at her own enthusiasm. Bernie merely raises his eyebrow in question, and is rewarded by Ash waxing poetic about the tiny, beautiful piece hanging in the Louvre, the way the light’s painted, the concentration on the woman’s face, the attention to detail-

“I don’t know why,” actually a little breathless by the time she stops rambling about it, she’s realised they’re both sitting on a sofa in the lobby, having viewed the full exhibition by now. With both her hands on his knees, she hadn’t realised how intense she had gotten until she realises how close they are, “she just takes my breath away.” Ash murmurs, voice dropping to contrast how exuberantly she’d been singing the work’s praises moments ago.

“You sound like you really love this painting.”

There’s a moment in time that follows, her gaze tracing his every feature, and he wonders what she sees in him, or even if she sees him at all. Lips twisting a little at that, a sharp shard of insecurity pierces his heart, his mind, as he wonders if she sees him or if she’s -

Her smile is so gentle, so  _sincere_ , and her hand comes up to ghost along the side of his face.

“Art’s very easy to love.” She says it like its a fact, and perhaps for her it is. Bernie doesn’t read into it, just lets go of the moment of insecurity and lets it fade quickly as Ash kisses him.

As it turned out, they weren’t being as discrete as they had assumed; on the plane to Japan, the first leg of the tour, Bernie’s asleep on the plane and Elton calls Ash over, looking pensive. Ash, who had been idly reading, a few seats away, no where near either Elton or Bernie, is confused for about three seconds before she gets to the musician himself, and he doesn’t play coy with what he wants to talk about.

“I know you and Bernie are seeing each other,” Elton’s tone is surprisingly level, though Ash’s stomach drops. “Don’t try and deny it-”

“I wouldn’t. Deny it, that is,” she’s quick to clarify, taking the seat opposite him. Elton gives her a small smile.

“I’m not going to tell you not to, or anything like that, he seems quite happy, as do you, and I like you well enough; you both deserve to be happy, of course,” but he pauses, his light smile shifting to something more serious, more sinister, “but he means the absolute world to me, you understand? And if you hurt him, I- I’ll-” he struggles to find the words, the threat, but it comes through loud and clear. Ash, however, reaches out, rests her hand on Elton’s where it’s pressed flat against the table between them.

“He’s… he’s  _good_ , isn’t he?” And she’s not asking it as if asking if he’s alright.

“He’s the best.” Elton confirms with a gentle smile, relaxing a little. “He’s not a saint, but honestly he’s better than I deserve most of the time.”

Honestly, it feels like Elton’s given his blessing, in a roundabout way, and Ash wonders if Freddie would give Bernie the same speech if he found out. Ash is grateful, however, as the idea of keeping up the charade on tour had been stressing her out.

After the first show of the tour, they all go out for drinks at a bar where no-one speaks English and their translator is almost overwhelmed at their exuberance. They sit around a coffee table, a set of armchairs and sofas for Elton and his entourage, and Ash sits in Bernie’s lap. It’s easy, it’s strangely casual, his hand on her thigh as he rambles how well the show went.

Drinks flow freely and drugs are passed around and when Elton asks, Ash will dance, will dance badly, but in that moment she’s without shame, because to see such genuine smiles from the people she’s come to consider friends, consider something more as is the case with Bernie, it makes it all worth it.

When she comes back, flush and grinning, and sees the way Bernie’s smiling, fond and amused at the spectacle she’d made of herself, she feels that  _want_  that she’d been so carefully controlling flare to life.

“The irony of my employment in the music industry does not escape me,” she laughs, breathless where she resumes her place in his lap, curling an arm around his shoulders.

“No idea what you mean,” he responded loftily, hand on her thigh, pulling her closer to him, “just wondering dear, what song were  _you_  dancing to, because I don’t think it was the one the club was playing.”

The way she laughs, it lights up the room, at least for him, and for just a moment, the excitement of the night, the thrill of another country, the liberation provided from the booze and blow, it all coalesces into one ecstatic high.

“Let’s get out of here,” his voice drops low, his grip on her thigh tightening, “we can spend every other night partying with the rest of them.” He actually nips at her neck and it’s all the convincing Ash needs before she’s getting to her feet, offering her hand and biting her lip.

“Lead the way.”

Bernie’s a nice person, well he likes to think he’s a nice person, and he doesn’t like to make assumptions about people, so, a few days later, when he again asked Ash what Brian had been warning him about, he hadn’t expected her to  _show_  him.

“You’re a writer; show don’t tell, isn’t that a rule?” She smirks, pinning Elton’s headdress in place and petting the rockstar on the shoulder. Bernie’s quickly turning pink at the mere implication of her offer, murmuring about how it’s a different sort of writing, but Ash just presses a kiss to Elton’s cheek, “alright, my work’s done, I’m going to go debase myself in a closet.” It’s so blasé that Elton laughs, wishes her luck.

Though it’s outwardly teasing, when she gets to Bernie himself, her expression turns soft. He looks pleased, actually, his blush fading fast, seems eager to be lead into the nearest empty room or closet. Ash is always sweet with him, always taking time and checking in to make sure he’s alright, which Bernie appreciates; he can tell at times that he’s not what she’s used to, but she adapts. But he learns too; learns to pull her hair and kiss her rough, to dig his nails in but also to hold her close in the quiet moments after, because she says she doesn’t know how music works but her whimpers and moans are their own kind of melody.

A girl like Ash would never be a forever for him, and they both knew this. She was the girl he could still work with even after sleeping with her, she’s the girl he can delude himself to thinking he’s in love with for the tour, she’s the girl who will smile at him the next time Reid brings her in like nothing ever happened. But she’s too much like Elton, with bigger dreams than he can rightly comprehend, and he’s sure she’d leave him in the dust if she had to… not that he thinks that about Elton.

Their relationship has a timer.

It started ticking down the moment he asks about what would happen after the tour, and Ash can’t meet his gaze.

He thinks he might always remember that afternoon, the two of them enjoying a day off in bed together, the sky outside overcast, though it didn’t matter because the room was heated to a be comfortable against their bare skin. Bernie’s on his side, shooting for idle when he asks, his fingers ghosting over her skin, as if mapping the plane of her back, each divot and muscle and vertebrae. Ash is on her stomach, holding her pillow beneath her head, half her face smushed into it, watching him through out half-closed eye.

“I’ll probably go back into project mode-” she starts.

“As soon as we get back? No down time between tours?” He asks, fingers ghosting up and down her bare spine. Ash gives a hollow laugh.

“I’m always on the move,” is all the response she offers before continuing on, “Freddie managed to call me while we were in New York; they’ve finished a new album and he’s honestly begging to have me back.” She paused, her smile fond and faraway, “he calls it ’ _A Night At The Opera_ ’, keeps calling it his magnum opus.”

“A man like Freddie, seems a bit soon to call it that,” Bernie laughs, and Ash finally meets his gaze, something in her chest tightening at the easy, kind fondness that seems to spi from him.

“He’s bound to have at least another eight in the coming decade,” she agrees, but then her expression fades and she shifts, presses her face further into the pillow, as if trying to make herself smaller.

“I- Bern,” with her voice so small and vulnerable, he can’t help but frown a little, concerned. His hand stills, comes to rest at the small of her back, “I don’t know what’s going to happen with us.” She admits, “I-” the words catch in her her throat, so he steps in.

“Ash, I love you but I don’t think I could keep up,” and she can tell it hurts a little for him to say it, like he’s giving her an out even if his heart’s not entirely in it, “you’re the Rocket, love, always on the move.” A few seconds pass, and Ash’s expression falls.

“ _Burning out my fuse up here, alone_.” She murmurs, forlorn. The lyrics hang in the air between them, but as soon as he process what she says, what she means, how she’s spiralling, he pulls her into his arms, holding her close.

“I’m sorry,” she’s hugging him back, her cheek resting on his chest, “I’m so sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” he assures, “let’s just enjoy it while it lasts.” He pauses, holding her just a little tighter, a lump forming in his throat, “and you’ll never be alone, Ash, there’s always be people who love you; Elton and I are just two of them, I promise.”

Ash is quiet for a very long moment before she moves, propping herself up, finally meeting his gaze, her own full of adoration. After a beat, she breaks out into a disbelieving smile.

“You’re good, you know that?” She half laughs, “much better than I deserve,” shaking her head, she talks before he can form a response or protest, “I love you, and I think I’ll always love you, in one way or another; is that weird to say? We haven’t known each other that long if you think about it,” already she’s back to sounding like her old self, and Bernie’s laughing, pulling her back into his arms.

“No, I get it; I love you too.”


End file.
